Lucky Man
by idearlylovealaugh
Summary: Despite some 6th-year comments to the contrary, Hermione has never fully understood the appeal of quidditch. Luckily, it's not the only thing Ron is passionate about.


_**A/N: Originally written for the Sinfully Romione 7 Deadly Sins fest in the Pride category (winner). Not JKR!**_

Hermione gave herself a quick glance in the luxurious ladies' room mirror, wincing as she tried to tuck a stubborn curl back into the twist into which she had fashioned her unruly mane only a few hours ago. It popped back out, of course, but it didn't seem worth the effort to try to magic it back in place. In this crowd, it was unlikely anyone would give her more than a passing glance anyway, flyaway hair or no.

Truthfully, she was beyond happy that Ginny had achieved her dreams of playing quidditch professionally with the Holyhead Harpies (a team Hermione supported in principle before they ever signed Ginny, purely based on their commitment to advancing female players). And of course it was awfully nice of her to give her extra End of the Season Gala tickets to she and Ron, knowing that Ron would be thrilled to hobnob with the other players in attendance.

Hermione made sure she had picked up her evening bag off the velvet settee before exiting the very posh and well-appointed powder room. What she hadn't realized at the time was exactly how glamorous the event would be and how desperately out-of-place it would make her feel.

She tugged the strap of her dress self-consciously as she made her way down the corridor, trying to remember the path back to the function room where the gala was being held. She had bought it specifically for the event and it was fancier than anything she had ever owned, but the second they had walked into the room, Hermione had felt underdressed. In a world that didn't really have picture or television stars, quidditch players and their wives were truly the magical community's celebrity elite and they certainly looked the part. She had tried not to gawk as they searched for Harry and Ginny in a sea of athletic, impossibly gorgeous men and women in the most fashionably cut, expensive robes she had ever seen.

Hermione could easily hold her own in a room full of high-powered politicians and government officials, but this was an entirely different kettle of fish. Sure, she had always enjoyed watching the Gryffindor matches and it was easy to get swept up in the excitement of seeing the World Cup for the first time, but she had to admit, she reflected as she decided that she needed to take a left at the fountain, when it came to quidditch, she never really "got it". Ron, Harry and Ginny could go on for _hours_ about it, but really, what did it matter which team won in the grand scheme of things? Was there any societal benefit to spending so much money to have adults play what was essentially a children's game on a grand scale?

And Merlin's beard, why was the ladies' so unaccountably far from the ballroom?

The strap of her heels dug uncomfortably into her little toe as she rounded a corner and finally recognized the door she was looking for. A blast of music and conversation assailed her as she pushed through the door and glanced around for her party. When they had first found Harry and Ginny they were being introduced to a clutch of players from the Kenmare Kestrels and had immediately been swept into their conversation about last year's semi-final match. Hermione had followed the discussion with polite interest, uncomfortably aware of how little she had to contribute. She smiled affectionately to herself as Ron's eyes practically bugged out of his head when the team's keeper asked for his opinion on a controversial call and admired how attractive he looked tonight in a handsome set of navy dress robes, his clear blue eyes sparkling in excitement. They had been on the far side of the room, near to the terrace doors, when she excused herself to the restroom, so she made her way in that direction, self-consciously smoothing down the skirts of her dress and wishing she had something to do with her hands.

She knew, from hearing about Ginny's experiences, that the players laughing and celebrating around her represented the best of the best in England, and that the competition to play at the professional level was fierce. Unconsciously, her thoughts drifted back to a time when a classmate had remarked that she must like quidditch players and the echo of her own answer, fueled by spite and a broken heart, reverberated in her brain, " _I like_ really good _Quidditch players_." Gods, how embarrassing! Although, to be fair, it was basically true - Ron _was_ a really good player, though she wouldn't have admitted it at the time. But the idea that it was quidditch prowess that turned her head was fairly laughable. Thank goodness, she thought as the crowds in front of her parted and she caught a glimpse of bright ginger hair, that they had gotten over all that uncertainty and jealousy.

She stopped short at the sight of a drop-dead gorgeous woman standing entirely, unnecessarily too close to her boyfriend.

Well. Almost gotten over.

The woman's silvery dress looked as if is was made of liquid mercury, sliding and swirling along her enviable curves. Her blonde hair rippled down her shoulders in perfectly tamed waves and she was so tall that Ron only needed to incline his head slightly to listen to her in the boisterous room. Hermione couldn't see his face clearly, but she felt her heart in her throat as she watched the women place a slender manicured hand on Ron's arm and lean into him.

At that moment Ron stepped back and looked up, catching sight of her approach. She saw his expression change from unease to one of relief and something she couldn't quite place, his eyes wide and his mouth gaping every so slightly. She gave him a small smile as she crossed the last few meters to his side, realizing with surprise that he was rather gawking at _her_.

"There you are," he breathed, as he slipped an arm around her waist. "This is Helen, the publicist for the Magpies," he said in a louder voice, gesturing to the statuesque blonde. "Helen, this is my girlfriend, Hermione Granger."

Hermione held out her hand, somewhat buoyed by the confidence in Ron's voice. Helen took it with only a slight raise of her perfect eyebrows. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"'Scuse us," Ron interjected apologetically, steering Hermione away from Helen and toward the dance floor. He stopped once he had weaved them deep into the swirling mass of dancers and looked down at her uncertainly.

"You don't mind, do you?"

Hermione smiled warmly. "Of course not," she answered, thinking in amusement that it ranked a bit higher than "come and dance" on the list of romantic invitations.

"Good, I needed to get away," he admitted, pulling her into his arms. "She was a little bit scary. Not that I didn't want to dance with you anyway," he hurriedly added, searching her face for offense.

Hermione thought about winding him up with a show of indignation, but ending up laughing instead. "I understand,"" she replied. "Are you enjoying yourself, though?"

"Yeah, of course! It's wicked, meeting all these players. I can't believe some of them knew who I was," he said in disbelief. "What about you, are you having fun?" he added anxiously.

"Yes, it's lovely," she said quietly, resting her head on his chest. She closed her eyes and let Ron's heartbeat guide the rhythm of her movements, trying to let go of any thoughts and feelings other than the happiness and rightness of being in his embrace.

"I didn't get to tell you before, but you look really beautiful tonight," he murmured as they swayed.

She couldn't help the small snort that escaped her. Ron pulled back, looking down at her with furrowed brows. "What?"

"It's awfully nice of you to say, Ron," she said, "but look around. The women here might as well be Veelas! They all look like Helen! I'm not saying it matters, but I stick out like a sore thumb."

Ron stopped moving abruptly. Hermione glanced around in embarrassment to see if anyone had noticed they were standing stock still in the middle of the dance floor, but no one seemed to pay any attention to them. She looked back to Ron to see him frowning at her.

"That's absolute rubbish, Hermione! As far as I'm concerned, I'm easily the luckiest bloke in this room." He ducked his head to try to catch her eye, even as his ears reddened with the openness of his words. "D'you have any idea how bloody proud I am to walk into these types of things next to you? To get to introduce you as my girlfriend?"

Hermione's instinct was to scoff, but the sincerity in his eyes overwhelmed her. She swallowed, feeling as though she couldn't speak around the lump in her throat. Bugger quidditch, _this_ was what drew her to Ron. He had such a big heart, and he wore it on his sleeve - and while she knew things sometimes got garbled on the way to his mouth, when he believed something strongly, she could trust in every word.

"And you look… well, you look amazing tonight," Ron went on, beginning to move to the music once more. "I've gotten to talk to four- four! - of the Cannon's top players since we've been here, but every time I see you, all I can think about is dragging you home to our bed."

She shivered as a thrill raced through her, suddenly feeling even more aware of all the places her body was touching his. "Really?"

He groaned as he stroked the bare skin of her back. "Really." He looked around surreptitiously. Although they were surrounded by people, it was like the crowd gave them a sort of privacy and anonymity that felt exciting and risky. He pressed her to him tightly, letting her feel his reaction to her touch. " If I'm bloody honest, I don't think I can wait long enough to get you back to the flat. D'you think a posh muggle hotel like this has a conveniently out-of-the-way broom closet?" he joked.

Hermione gave him a secret smile, her mind retracing her earlier steps in a flash.

"Actually, I know just the place."


End file.
